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"Storm warning."
Lorelei had whispered the words to Ashur as he made his way through the front door of the Shop. Dark had already fallen by the time he'd managed to arrive on that particular day, held up by endless queues of people who wanted his attention, apparently all at the same time. If one more overly polite magister or cleric had asked him a question, he might have done something unbecoming. He'd love to say he'd have punched someone, but it would likely have been something more subtle. Like setting their robes on fire.
Dock Town was in a near-eternal state of cloudiness, so the words in particular might've seemed functionally useless. Ashur, however, met them with a nod as the secret entrance to the Shadow Dragons’ HQ slid open to let him through.
Storm warning was a very, very old code word. Lorelei had developed it herself in the days when Ashur could count the number of people the Shadow Dragons trusted on the fingers of one hand. It had been back before they'd even found the Shop, in the days when sometimes the safest place to meet was on a rooftop. Often in the middle of the night.
Storm warning, to put it simply, meant Tarquin. Specifically, it meant a Tarquin who had had too much weight piled onto him, who had had too many things go wrong in too short a period of time. A Tarquin who was pulled in so many directions and had so many things falling apart behind the scenes that he couldn't corral his instinct to snap anymore. It was a Tarquin who didn't have patience for young Dragons with questions a little too obvious or paperwork that wasn't quite filled out properly.
“'Hostile work environment, like a farmer in a storm,”' Lorelei had joked when she'd first come up with the idea of a code word. A way to warn the others that Tarquin needed a bit more space on that particular day, for his sake and theirs. The warning was helpful most of the time, though Ashur found that he could almost always tell when a bad time was creeping up on Tarquin before it happened. It had been happening a lot less recently; years of support and friendship seemed to have dimmed a lot of Tarquin's worst anger issues and Ashur went out of his way to help when he saw signs of mood approaching.
This particular incident though, Ashur knew he wouldn't be able to mitigate.
The other Dragons had given Tarquin’s usual table a wide berth. As Ashur approached he could see the other’s expression pulled tight as he pored over paperwork. Probably invoices—work he loathed even though he insisted he didn't trust anyone else to do it. Ashur imagined he could see steam pouring out of the man's ears with the way his face contorted, the furrowing of his brow matching the sneer of his lips. Usually, even once it had started, Ashur had methods of helping. Of pushing Tarquin to relax, encouraging the others to give him space, and taking things off his plate. This particular mood had been going on for several days, though, and Ashur…
It would be easy to say that Ashur didn't know how it had gotten this bad, but it would be a lie. This mood had started in the aftermath of the incident. The one in which Ashur, for his own peace of mind, had sent Dragons out to check up on all their templar members—Tarquin included. The arguments they'd had that day, and in the several days since, had faded some of the worst of Tarquin's indignant fury, but clearly not all of it. Add on that Ashur had offered to help him pay for his rising rent costs and the additional attention placed on the man at his day job after a not-so-subtle request from the Divine had mentioned him by name and suffice to say Tarquin's current mood was—more or less—Ashur's fault.
That made it substantially more difficult for Ashur to fix the problem, but not impossible. He hoped. He had an idea, at the very least.
Mae said it was an insane idea.
Dorian said it was foreplay.
All Ashur knew for certain was that, yesterday, Tarquin had threatened to deck him if he stood too close and all he could think was that, if it would help Tarquin feel better, he'd do it. He'd do anything to help Tarquin.
He approached the table and watched Tarquin's eyes follow his arrival. There was already a fight in them, as there had been for nearly a week now. Ashur met the gaze—steady, unwavering—and, the moment Tarquin opened his mouth to snap something unnecessary, Ashur cut him off. "Come with me."
There was a sort of assumptive nature in the way Ashur turned his back on Tarquin, still sitting at the table, and stalked off. In the way he didn’t bother to look back and confirm that he was being followed. Of course, it was only as assumptive as it was untrue—and Tarquin was following. Ashur could hear the harsh stomping of his feet, not dragging even in his anger. He didn't question where they were going, but Ashur could feel dark eyes on the back of his head. It was question—and confirmation—enough.
The salle was set up in the back of the Shop, on the bottom floor. Unlike the rest of the building, with its open gathering spaces and various places to crash for a night or more, the salle didn't see much use—that didn't mean it was never used. However, with no upcoming missions on the books and no recent recruits, Ashur was betting that the room was empty and, when he shouldered through the door, he was relieved to see that he’d been right. A rack of weaponry was set up against the far wall of the room and Ashur continued on a path straight towards it as he heard Tarquin's steps come to a stop just inside the door.
"What are we doing here, Ashur?" The man's voice was tense, a bitterness in it that felt like a lash across Ashur's chest. Across his heart even, though he wouldn't let that thought linger long enough to register. A dangerous line of thinking, that, especially now.
Letting out a deep sigh and grasping at one of the dulled arming swords racked alongside waisters for training, Ashur spun on his heel and tossed it across the distance between them. Tarquin caught it effortlessly, as Ashur expected him to, but the shock had his eyebrows pulled up in what seemed like a furthering of the question he'd spoken aloud. Ashur met his gaze as he reached back to grasp for a sword for himself. The weight of it settled familiar in his right palm. He had been trained in formal swordplay, as most Altus had, even while magic took over most of his training. Tarquin had often teased him about it, declaring formal sword training useless in practical warfare, but despite joking about it at length, the two of them had never properly sparred together before. That would change today.
"You're angry with me." It wasn't spoken as a question. Ashur shrugged off the weight of his cape as he stalked towards the centre of the small salle. It was a third the size of the places Ashur had trained, but the sort of fighting the Shadow Dragons practised for wasn't the type that needed fanciful movements. What was it Tarquin always said…? That sometimes, Ashur’s swordfighting looked like dancing. Swordplay was footwork, Ashur would retort, more than anything else. Tarquin always laughed. "So take it out on me," Ashur continued. "Not the rest of the Dragons."
For a moment, Ashur was sure Tarquin would refuse. His instinctive grip on the sword in his hand was firm, but the expression on his face was a mix of anger and confusion and that, in Ashur's experience, never spelled good things. After a few moments of deliberation, however, the man's decision was made clear in the intentional tightening of his grip around the hilt and the steel that bled into his gaze. He moved faster than Ashur could even get into position to receive, their swords clashing together, loud, and brash, the echo of it filling the mostly empty room.
Ashur's own sword blade stayed nearly vertical in front of his face, even as Tarquin's launched assault forced him to lean into a half-step back. The other blade—Tarquin's blade—hovered mere inches from Ashur's throat. It appeared to have been stopped only by the reflexive raising of his own weapon, but Ashur fully believed that Tarquin would've halted the blade (dulled or otherwise) if he'd missed. No matter how angry Tarquin was, he wouldn't let Ashur get hurt—Ashur was sure of it.
Gathering his strength, Ashur quickly adapted to the start of the fight proper. Lifting his free hand from his hip, he used the combined power of both hands on the weapon's hilt to press the offence, forcing Tarquin to take a few rapid steps back to create distance between them as Ashur's sword came down towards his right arm.
Just like that, the fight was on. Tarquin’s face remained in tight concentration, but there was a playful glint in his eye–the one that Ashur associated with Tarquin in a fight. It was distractingly attractive. Ashur was glad to have had plenty of experience of seeing it, and needing to focus regardless, or he might have found himself losing this fight embarrassingly quickly.
Tarquin was good with a sword though, and Ashur was quickly finding that his initial assumption that his formal training would let him hold his own might not be true. Tarquin might not have formal training, but he'd learned to fight for war. He had at length lectured Ashur, and other Altus within the Shadow Dragons, about the fact that warfare didn't have room for rules of engagement. That he and others like him had been forced to learn to adapt and quickly. To fight dirty to stay alive.
Ashur cursed himself for not having listened more carefully then.
His full attention the entire fight had been on the clashing of swords, expecting his footing to be automatic so that he didn’t have to worry about much below the waist at all. As he brought his sword up to parry an attack that forced him to meet it above his head, leaving him unbalanced, he suddenly found himself falling backwards. Trying to maintain his centre of gravity required him to overcompensate forward—which meant that, when Tarquin's ankle looped behind Ashur's lower leg, it took only a slight push of their clashing blades to send him tumbling to the ground.
Releasing his sword to make an attempt to catch himself, Ashur hit the ground before he could even adjust his grip. His back took the brunt of the impact, a gruff exhale puffing out of his mouth as the air was forced from his lungs. Blinking the room back into focus, Ashur shot out a hand to grab his sword again, but instead made contact with a firm forearm. Tarquin had followed Ashur's descent, the blunted tip of his weapon now pressed into the ground at Ashur's shoulder.
Tarquin's hair had fallen loose of the bun at the back of his head, several sweaty strands hanging down into his face as he stared at Ashur. Both of them were breathing heavily. As Tarquin adjusted his body, the movement brought Ashur's attention to the full weight of Tarquin sitting astride his hips. His breath caught in his throat.
"Not bad for an Altus." Tarquin complimented, and it was clear he was making to move. To stand and help Ashur up. To end the fight.
Ashur's next move was inspired mostly by an unwillingness to (technically) lose the fight. At least, if questioned, he would insist that was the reason. In truth, he couldn't be certain that he hadn't done it out of some desire not to end the touch between them too early or something equally embarrassing.
Either way, the move was almost entirely instinct. He planted the heel of his foot into the ground, his left arm anchoring around Tarquin's grip on his sword and his hand coming up to grip Tarquin's shoulder. That and his body weight gave him just enough leverage to twist them both sideways. He lifted Tarquin almost entirely up into the air, then brought him easily down onto the ground.
A huff similar to Ashur’s burst out of Tarquin's mouth as his upper back made contact with the floor. Unlike in Ashur’s collapse, Tarquin's back was more or less the only part of him that hit the ground—and, due to the nature of their previous positioning, Tarquin's legs were still wrapped around Ashur's waist. Ashur’s waist which was high enough off the ground as he knelt there that he was lifting Tarquin’s lower back in turn. His left hand still rested on Tarquin's shoulder and the other, it seemed, had come to rest on Tarquin’s waist.
To an outsider, it would likely seem to be some sort of mockery of lovemaking, even more so than the previous position had been.
All at once, Ashur panicked, as if his mind had finally caught up with its instinctual actions and realized that he was functionally pressing his adrenaline-fuelled half-erection right against Tarquin's… well…
Releasing his grip and pushing Tarquin's knees to get the man to release his waist in return, Ashur scrambled to his feet. He lingered in a half-panic just long enough to see the smile splitting Tarquin's face. More than a smile, even; as Ashur straightened his clothing, he realized that Tarquin was laughing. It was not a full-bodied thing, but enough that tremors of it were spreading through his chest.
Tarquin rolled onto his side, the laughter bright and warm as it twirled up into the space between them. Ashur couldn't help but add his own chuckle to it as he stood, his panic receding and the ridiculousness of the situation taking over. He shook his head, unable to rid his face of the dumb smile that pulled up his cheeks even as Tarquin's laughter died.
"That was a dirty trick, Ash." Coming from Tarquin, the words were praise—though Ashur was hardly paying attention to them. Not when Tarquin was calling him Ash again. They'd still have to talk—they always did—but hearing that little nickname again meant the world. "Nice work."
Ashur shifted his weight, slightly uneasy as he felt a blush creep across his cheeks. Clearing his throat, he reached a hand down to Tarquin. After a moment, the other man took it—also a good sign. They gathered up their weapons and, as Ashur took them both to rack them, he found himself speaking carefully, "So we're—"
Tarquin cut him off. "We're good. You can call off the damn warning."
With a nod, Ashur moved to get his cape. Tarquin waited for him and they walked out of the salle together, neither of them bringing up the fact that Ashur's hundreds of layers were the only thing hiding his arousal. Ashur was thankful for that; it was awkward enough to know Tarquin had felt it. Though, judging from the sidelong glances Tarquin kept giving him, maybe it wasn't all that awkward. Maybe it wasn't all that one-sided, either.
Something to think about for next time, Ashur supposed. Other methods of… blowing off some of the steam before the storm.